No Plan B

He had spent fourteen hours in his car, with Graeber, blasting north from Georgia through Tennessee and Kentucky and Indiana and then across the corner of Illinois until they reached the outskirts of Chicago. They had split the driving, which was good for safety. But not good for Emerson’s state of mind. He had called his wife when he was still on the bridge in Savannah, watching the fire he had set. Her voice had been distant and mechanical, the way a dead person sounds in a dream. She had told him about Kyle. Their son. His rehabilitation had been going so well. Until suddenly it wasn’t. That afternoon. His body just shut down. First his liver, of course. Then one system after another. A cascade of total catastrophic failures. She had called the doctor right away but it was already too late. Nothing could be done. Kyle had shriveled and shrunk and slipped away right in front of her. She had been powerless to stop him.

Kyle was only twenty-two. It wasn’t right. Not after everything they’d done to help him. Not after the amount of money they’d spent.

While Emerson was behind the wheel he had other things to focus on. Not crashing. Not getting pulled over with the needle north of 120. Straightening that kind of thing out can cause serious delays. But when Graeber was driving Emerson found it harder to control his emotions. His wife’s words echoed in his head. Memories of his son crowded in after them. Along with the regrets. So many regrets. And so much reluctance to face the scene he knew must await him at home.

Graeber’s car was parked in Emerson’s garage. He had left it there when they set off for Georgia. Emerson had driven the last leg so he hit the remote, waited for the door to clank up and out of the way, and pulled in alongside it. Graeber reached for the door handle but before he got out he turned to his boss. “What do you want us to do?”

Emerson thought for a moment. About the things he would have to handle when he went inside the house. How long they would take. Then he said, “Call Shevchenko. He owes us, big-time. Tell him we need a plane. Today. And maybe a chopper, tomorrow or the next day. Then meet me at the warehouse. In two hours. Bring the others. And pack a bag.”

“Where are we going?”

“To find the people who sold the thing that killed my son.”

Chapter 13

Jack Reacher slept lightly in his replacement room. He woke himself at 9:00 a.m. He showered. He got dressed. And he had just folded his toothbrush, ready to leave, when there was a heavy knock at his door.

“Jack Reacher? This is Detective Harewood, Gerrardsville PD. Are you in there? We need to talk.”

Reacher opened the door and let the detective in. Harewood glanced around the space. He waited for Reacher to sit on the bed and then took the only chair. It was a fluffy turquoise thing with a loose arm and it wasn’t at all comfortable. Harewood fidgeted in vain for a moment then put a file he’d been carrying down on the floor.

He said, “You should get a cellphone.”

Reacher said, “Why?”

“So that people can call you.”

“Like who?”

“Like me.”

“You likely to do that often?”

Harewood paused. “No. But that’s not the point. You’re a hard man to find. It would have been easier if I could have called you. Asked you where you were.”

“But you did find me.”

“Eventually. I called all the hotels in town and asked if they had a guy named Reacher registered. Of course they all said no. So I figured you were using an alias. I remembered you told me you came to town to see the exhibition about Pea Ridge. So I called all the hotels back. Asked for a guest named Samuel Curtis. The victorious general from the battle. And boom. Here you are.”

“I’m impressed. You should be a detective.”

Harewood smiled, but without any humor. “About that. It’s why I wanted to talk to you. I wanted to let you know that the case—the woman killed by the bus—has been closed.”

Reacher thought about the two men he’d seen being wheeled away on gurneys the night before. They’d been in bad shape. Maybe the beating they’d taken had made them open to a deal. He said, “You caught the guys?”

“It’s been ruled a suicide.”

Reacher said nothing.

Harewood closed his eyes and shook his head. “Look, I know what you told me. About the guy in the hoodie. How he pushed the woman. I believe you. But here’s the problem. Another witness came forward. He swears he saw the woman dive in front of the bus. Deliberately dive.”

“He’s wrong.”

“I believe you. But this other guy? He’s…respectable.”

“And I’m not?”

“I didn’t say that. My lieutenant—”

“This witness is wrong. Or he’s lying. Maybe he’s in on it. Or maybe he was paid off.”

Harewood shook his head. “He’s a solid citizen. He’s lived right here in town his whole life. Has a house. A wife. A job. Doesn’t gamble. Doesn’t drink or use drugs. Isn’t in debt. Never even got a parking ticket.”

“Other witnesses, then? Passengers on the bus. Someone must have seen something.”